“Yes, I am the successor of poor old Professor Raymond—the new curator of the Headley Museum.”
“Hurray!” cried Guest, snatching up a great bird-skin by the beak and waving it round his head till he wrung its neck right off. “Oh, bother! Three cheers for Professor Stratton! Bravo! Why, you’ll be an awful scientific swell. Malcolm, old chap, I am glad,” he continued, flinging the choice and valuable specimen up on to a bookcase, and grasping his friend’s hand. “You shall dine with me to-night, and we’ll pour out champagne libations to the gods.”
“Sit down and be quiet,” said Stratton gravely. “No, old fellow, I can’t dine with you to-night; I’ve something particular to do.”
“Come and have a big lunch, then; we must go mad somehow. Why, its glorious, old man! They’ve had big, scientific, bald-headed old buffers there before—regular old dry-as-dusts. Come on; you can’t and I can’t work to-day.”
“Sit down, I tell you, and be serious. I want to talk to you.”
“All right—I may smoke?”
“Smoke? Yes.”
“But are you sure you can’t come?” said Guest, taking out a pipe.
“Quite. I have made up my mind to go to Bourne Square to-night.”
“To the admiral’s?” cried Guest, starting, and changing colour a little.